much difficulty, to smuggle myself on board a small bark bound for Jamaica, where I joined the “Brethren of the Coast,” and have lived a reasonably jolly life ever since.’ This was Nicky’s story, and an adventurous one it was. While I was thinking of it, he began again— ‘No, no—no England for me, while there are Spaniards to fight, good ships to sail in, and stout fellows to drink with in these bright Indian seas.’ And therewith, having taken a good draught of brandy, he burst out singing: ‘Take comfort, pretty Margery, and swab away your tears, Your sweetheart, Tom, has sailed among the gallant Buccaneers, So dry your eyes, my Margery, your Tom is true and bold, And he’ll come again to see you, lass, with glory and with gold, For his comrades are the stoutest and the bravest in the land, And there’s ne’er a Don came out of Spain will meet them hand to hand. So-ho! for pike and sabre cut, and balls about your ears, ’Tis little he must care for these, would join the Buccaneers! ‘The man who lies at home at ease, a craven heart has he, While there’s wild boars on the hills to hunt, and Spaniards on the sea; So look alive my stately Don, for spite your thundering guns, Your shining gold we’ll make our own, and eke your pretty nuns. We’ll spend the first, and love the last, and when we tire ashore, ’Tis but another cruise my boys, and back we come with more. So-ho! for pike and sabre cut, and balls about your ears, ’Tis little he must care for these, would join the Buccaneers!’ ‘Silence, silence, Nicky!’ said I, laughing; ‘you will awaken the watch below.’ ‘So be it,’ quoth he; ‘to listen to such a song is better than sleep. ’Tis a rare good one, and a rare fellow made it in Tortugas, one night when we were melting the last pieces of eight remaining after a cruise on shore. But you put me out. Hear the last verse— ‘What though to peace in Europe, the Dons and we incline, The treaty seldom has much force—to the south’ard of the line. Here’s wassailing and fighting, the merriest of lives, With staunch and jovial comrades, with sweethearts and with wives. We sweep the green savannahs, we storm the Spanish walls, And we’re kings upon the water, by the grace of cannon balls. Then ho! for pike and sabre cut, and bullets round your ears, ’Tis little he must care for these, would head the Buccaneers!’